- •The Intersection of Law and Desire
- •I let her sit in silence for a few moments before repeating, “What do they have on you?”
- •I hesitated for a second, embarrassed at what came to mind. “Oh, hell. Jerking off,” I finally admitted.
- •I felt a touch of slickness between my legs. “I’m wet,” I acknowledged.
- •I brushed some of the water out of my hair, hoping it would spot her leather interior and muttered, “Whoever said, ‘Better late than never’?”
- •I would be seeing Cordelia tomorrow, I suddenly realized. And myself in the mirror later tonight. I gently removed Karen’s arms from around my neck.
- •I picked up her bike rack and my duffel bag with my oh so beloved running shoes, while Cordelia managed her bike and gear. After locking up, we headed down to put the bike on her car.
- •I turned sharply around to scan the road. “Nope. Not a Rolls in sight. The snootiest car visible is a Cadillac. And it’s not even this year’s model. I don’t think they’re watching you right now.”
- •I watched them as they pedaled away, Torbin riding abreast with Cordelia. She was nodding her head to something he was saying. Then a line of trees hid them from my view.
- •I stopped. Clearly we needed to have more than a one-sided conversation. Joanne looped back to me.
- •I shrugged noncommittally.
- •I nodded as I waited by the passenger door for her to open it.
- •I grinned at his use of tv cop show cliché, then said, “I’ll do what I can. I’ll call you as soon as I’ve got something to report.”
- •I didn’t recognize the desk sergeant. I introduced myself, then bantered a bit about the Saints’ chances for the playoffs this year.
- •I opened it and started reading, although I knew it would back him up. Bill did paperwork until I decided I had read all of the autopsy report that I cared to. I handed the file back to him.
- •I didn’t need to look around to know that Joey had arrived.
- •I let my disapproval hang in the silence for a long moment. “Eight months? And you’re just now wondering about it?”
- •I decided that sniping at each other wasn’t going to be helpful. “What do you do to calm her fears?”
- •I installed the night-light next to Cissy’s bed, then stayed up reading until a little after three, but no one stirred. Maybe the night-light would keep away Cissy’s fears.
- •I gave her a quick rundown while driving out of the airport maze. Then I asked the question I had been wanting to ask. “What do you know about child psychology?”
- •I shrugged, met her gaze for a moment, then looked away. “What do we do?” I demanded.
- •I stood gazing out the window to avoid looking at her while she packed up.
- •I nodded yes.
- •I thought for a moment. Barbara Selby couldn’t afford anything like it. Then I remembered the money Karen was paying me.
- •I decided to do some work on my one paying case and dialed Torbin’s number.
- •I didn’t reply, instead I crossed my arms and looked away from him.
- •I knelt beside Cissy. “I think I like the blue one the best. Which one do you like?”
- •I nodded, then said, “I’m glad you noticed.”
- •I nodded, then added, “I’m not asking for your money back.”
- •I started to ask her about Lindsey, but realized that I was picking at scabs, scratching and irritating them.
- •I sat next to her, taking her hand between both of mine. “Now tell me about your day.”
- •I shuddered beneath Cordelia’s embrace, warmth a fragile and fleeting thing.
- •I didn’t answer. I slowly leaned back into her embrace. Warm and alive and not in immediate pain seemed to be all that I could offer her.
- •I watched Cordelia as she spoke. She believed what she said, but if I gave in to her wishes, then the power became hers and I would have to trust that she would not use it.
- •I turned and led the way to the kitchen.
- •I quickly hurried down the stairs and out of the courtyard, feeling ragged and torn, unwilling to have her voice leave another mark on me.
- •I looked again at the matchbook. “Heart of Desire” was scripted in gold on a black background. Some of the gold lettering had begun to chip.
- •I said, “What are you working on? We might—”
- •I reluctantly gave him the number to Cordelia’s clinic.
- •I sat for a moment before finally replying, “I need to talk to a lawyer first.”
- •I put the black binder back on o’Connor’s desk, a faint unsettled queasiness rolling in my stomach.
- •I thought for a moment. Legally it would probably be Aunt Greta, but she was the last person I’d want involved. “I guess my cousin, Torbin Robedeaux.”
- •I watched Joey walk out of the bar. The fish had taken the bait. But look what usually happens to bait. I didn’t drive by Cordelia’s apartment on my way out of the Quarter.
- •I held my temper. Joey was playing with me, testing my limits. “I like men. I even love some men. I just get real bored with them when they take their clothes off.”
- •I started to say it wasn’t her money but her mortal soul that I was worried about, but Joey wouldn’t understand and I was beyond explaining it.
- •I turned into the driveway of Lindsey’s office.
- •I finally broke the silence by asking, “Is she okay?”
- •I knew she was right. Law and justice aren’t the same thing. “Is she okay? How badly hurt is she?”
- •I spun on my heel, angry at her. Then I turned back and said as gently as I could, “If you need my help, you know my number. Call me anytime.”
- •I headed in the direction he had indicated. For a moment, the sound of our footsteps mingled, then his faded into the distance and mine alone echoed.
- •I nodded and he continued.
- •I looked at the floor for several moments before I finally answered, “For a while. I lived there…I couldn’t get away from him.” Then I said, “I’d prefer to talk about something else.”
- •I spent most of the weekend at my apartment. No one called me, and I called no one.
- •I nodded slowly, but made no other reply.
- •I climbed into the backseat.
- •I got down to business. “So when does the ceiling fall on Zeke’s head?”
- •I handed the last box to Mr. Unfriendly, then hopped out of the truck. Zeke led the way back into the building. Mr. Silent followed me, closing the door on the cool night.
- •I gave both Betsy and Camille my phone number. Then, with Camille running interference, we headed back downstairs.
- •I didn’t know what to do except respond. I had not expected this. I had come up with dozens of scenarios, but none of them had included Lindsey kissing me.
- •I shrugged, then since she was fronting the money, answered, “No, not for you, it shouldn’t be.”
- •I crossed my arms over my chest, a barricade of sorts. “I need a shrink’s advice,” was my opening. “How do you say no when someone’s making a sexual advance that you’re not sure you want?”
- •I said nothing. I didn’t think Lindsey deserved the accident, but that was a road she had to walk.
- •I felt a surge of jealousy. I knew I wasn’t Cordelia’s first lover, but that wasn’t the same thing as hearing Lindsey describe this.
- •I checked the gun. It was loaded. I suddenly turned and pointed it at Algernon. He stopped and merely looked at me.
- •In the alley you will meet your escort to the boat. That way no one can follow you or recognize your car.
- •I switched it on and found the path into the dark woods.
- •I took one of the pay packets out and waved it in Vern’s face. Then I said, “I don’t pay sexist assholes. You want your money, you’d better deal with me.”
- •I didn’t. That was the horrible thing. “Load up the kids,” I said, to buy time. Maybe if I got enough men out of here I could chance pulling my gun.
- •I held the kiss a little longer, giving her time to get the key securely under her tongue. Then I broke it off. I wondered what Cordelia was thinking.
- •I padlocked the door. It would keep them in, but it would also keep the crew out.
- •I handed it to Ron, and said, “Thanks a lot. I’ve got to get these kids to bed now. It’s almost midnight and they’re very tired.”
- •I lifted the next girl. She was silent, asking no questions, expecting nothing. Cordelia was helping me now, we both put the next two girls in at the same time. Then in silence, the last two.
- •I aimed at him and fired.
- •I told my tale as best I could, still waiting for word on Cordelia and the kids.
- •I just shrugged, terrified to lift my barricades. I couldn’t admit how desperately I wanted to revive the time when I was sure she loved me.
- •I looked at Cordelia. Usually we’re locked in our own world, our own needs and desires. Cordelia had just let me into a place where she was small and scared. “I’m so afraid of you,” I admitted.
- •I let the tension ease out of me and closed my eyes.
- •I got up to leave. His money could buy many things. A lesson in the cost of betrayal was one of them. Francois had made his choices.
- •I ignored that. “Why do you think Francois won’t betray you?”
- •I started to point out that was clichéd, too, but decided that Kessler wasn’t interested in knowing that. I didn’t talk.
- •I slammed my heel into his instep, causing him to howl in pain.
- •I didn’t know if Barbara was asking a rhetorical question or asking me about myself. I answered as if it were the latter, “The memory remains. Don’t silence her. Don’t ever blame her.”
- •I watched them as they went down the hall, not wanting to go with them. Instead, I walked back the way I came, giving Barbara and Cissy time to find their way home.
- •I didn’t look back as we drove away.
The Intersection of Law and Desire
It is fall in the steamy underworld of New Orleans, the seasons are changing, and so is tough detective Micky Knight’s life. Micky takes on the case of the daughter of a friend, who is believed to be sexually abused, not knowing that the investigation will lead her on a dangerous sexual odyssey. In Cissy’s sleepless nights, Micky sees echoes of her own past, and she becomes caught up in a world where young girls are treated as commodities. While doing battle with seedy thugs and struggling to hold on to her rocky relationship with Dr. Cordelia James, Micky travels between the uptown opulence of the Sans Parel Club, one of New Orleans’s exclusive private clubs, and a tawdry hole of a bar near the Desire Projects. Evil exists in both places, and the mystery culminates where law and desire intersect.
Chapter 1
I cursed myself for being a good girl and promised that little old ladies would get no more favors from me. It was now 4:54 p.m. At three o’clock, I had been beyond ready to admit that business was slower than a dead turtle. Good girl or no, at five exactly I would be closed for the business day. I wouldn’t be gone because I lived here. I could have been the kind of detective who earned enough to afford both an office and an apartment, but that would require taking too many of what I called the “Oh, shit” cases—husbands looking for wives who where probably in the local women’s shelter, bosses who wanted to make sure their no-insurance, minimum wage employees didn’t cheat them. So I now sat in my office/living room waiting for six minutes to slowly tick by. Sara Clavish, who had the other office (Cajun cookbooks) on this floor had asked if I could accept a package for her. I certainly owed her the favor. Ms. Clavish was a woman in her early sixties who still occasionally wore white gloves. Besides the cat feeding I could always depend on her for, a client had had some exotic toys shipped to me. I wasn’t around, so the delivery person left them with Ms. Clavish. To claim that a package from Mons of Venus, Inc., wasn’t for me would sound unbelievable, so I didn’t. Ms. Clavish had handed it to me without even the hint of a lifted eyebrow. But I hadn’t thought that her noon-ish request would trap me in the office until the dregs of the afternoon.
My clock-watching was interrupted by the phone. “Hello,” I answered, skipping the “M. Knight Detective Agency” routine, since I assumed that it was too late in the day for clients.
“Hi…uh…Micky?” replied a hesitant young boy’s voice.
“Patrick, how are you?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” he answered, his voice relaxing as he was recognized.
I hadn’t seen Patrick, a twelve-year-old boy, in about a month. His mother Barbara and I were friends. While she had been doing physical therapy, I had insisted on being at the top of the list of people to stay with Patrick and Cissy, her kids. She needed physical therapy because she had been shot in the head. I had been with her when it happened. And although Barbara insists that I had saved her life, I still feel guilty that she almost died while I escaped with only cuts and bruises. She finished about five weeks ago. I had seen her a few times recently, but, my babysitting duty over, I hadn’t seen Patrick or Cissy since.
“So, what’s up? You miss me so much, you can’t survive without hearing my dulcet tones?” I kidded Patrick.
“Well…no. I want to hire you.” His voice was serious.
“Hire me?” I was caught off guard both by his request and his earnestness.
“Yes. That’s if you’re not too busy or anything.”
“I might be able to work you in,” I agreed. Busy was not a major problem.
“Maybe we can meet to discuss it?” he asked, trying his best to sound adult and businesslike.
After maneuvering around Little League and the like, we worked out a time. In the middle of this, my buzzer rang. I assumed it to be Ms. Clavish’s tardy package, so without interrupting my conversation with Patrick, I buzzed open the downstairs door. The delivery person could huff and puff up three flights of stairs.
“You don’t want to tell me what this is about?” I asked Patrick.
“Well,” he hesitated for a moment, “it’s sort of about Cissy. But I don’t want to talk over the phone.” Cissy was two and a half years younger than he was. For a brother and a sister, they were fairly close.
“Okay.” I didn’t push.
“Please don’t tell my mom,” was his final request.
My door swung open. For a moment I thought it was a rude delivery person, until I realized that it wasn’t a package courier framed in my doorway.
As usual, her clothes were expensive, her hair perfectly styled, a shade of blond that I would have taken for natural if Cordelia hadn’t shown me a picture of them as children at a family reunion. Her eyes were a blue that was enhanced by perfectly applied makeup. She had the self-assured poise of someone who has always had enough money to buy whatever she wanted.
“Karen Holloway,” I said. “How nice to see you again. Don’t tell me you’ve come to apologize for all the trouble you caused me.”
My sarcasm was lost on her. “Micky, I want to hire you.”
“Pity. I’m closed for the day.” I stood up like I was about to leave.
“I’m serious. I do need your help.” Then she added, “I’ll pay you well for your time.”
If I were Nancy Drew, this would be the Case of the Boy and the Blond Bitch. Cases, that is. And a grown-up Nancy Drew to be using words that rhymed with witch. Timing and alliteration were the only links between the Boy and the Blond Bitch.
Karen had her checkbook out and was writing a check.
“You need my help? Well, my prayers have been answered,” I finally replied.
“Don’t you want this check?” Karen asked as she walked by me. She waved it in my face. It was for $5,000.
“What are you doing here?” I countered. I sat down behind my desk, putting as much distance as I could between us.
I first met Karen last January when she had hired me, ostensibly to find her lost fiancé. The assignment was easy—he was working as a dancer in a gay bar. But, of course, Harry wasn’t her fiancé; he was her brother, and a few pictures of him dancing for the boys was enough to get him kicked out of rich grandpapa’s will. I decided that fair was fair and took advantage of Karen’s interest in my body to get some equally compromising pictures to hand over to her grandfather. I winced at the memory. I hadn’t actually handed them to him, but to his other granddaughter, Cordelia James.
I shook my head to clear the memory. It wasn’t one I was proud of. I reminded myself that at least Cordelia had had some idea of what I was when she became involved with me. It still seemed improbable that we were lovers.
“Will you help me?” Karen asked, making herself comfortable on my couch.
I sat at my desk, trying to answer that age-old question, “Now what?” I knew that Karen and Cordelia, who were first cousins, maintained a polite, if distant relationship. They didn’t run in the same circles, but occasionally Cordelia would make a token appearance at Karen’s uptown parties. However, I wasn’t sure what Cordelia really thought of Karen. What she might think of me for working for Karen, I was even less sure.
“You can’t seriously expect me to do anything for you, can you?” I told her. There, that should be blunt enough.
She could and it wasn’t. “Yes, I can. I’m asking you to help me and paying you good money for it,” she informed me. She put the check on my desk.
The money was, unfortunately, a major temptation. Cordelia had been the only grandkid without compromising pictures, and, despite her not wanting it, she had gotten the bulk of her grandfather’s estate. She was also a doctor, and, although she was a low-priced internist, she still made a lot more than I did.
Conceding to reality that Karen was here, I said, “What help do you want?” I was also, I had to admit, just a bit curious about what Karen was up to that would lead her back to my office.
“So, you’ll do it?” It was just barely a query.
“Check ain’t cleared yet.” I put my feet up on the desk and leaned back, refusing to be budged by her haste. Karen wasn’t giving me much time to think about my original problem—did I really need the money enough to get tangled up with her again? My only other case, Patrick, didn’t appear to be a real money maker. I reached one of those pragmatic compromises with myself—to take the money. It would buy Karen the time I spent listening to her and my effort in figuring out who to palm her off on.
“Call my bank. They’ll vouch that it’s good.”
“Like last time?”
“I paid you.”
“Eventually. And under duress,” I reminded her.
“Why don’t we go to the bank right now? I’ll give it to you in cash.”
“Why don’t you go and get the cash and come back here?”
“Because I don’t want to be carrying five thousand dollars in cash on me.”
“Oh? But it’s all right if I do?” I retorted. “Thanks, but no thanks, Karen. I’ll let you know when it’s cleared,” I finished, a clear dismissal.
To anyone but Karen. “Please, I really do need your help. I don’t know who else to turn to,” she pleaded, an almost real sound of desperation in her tone.
“All right, Karen,” I cut in. “What’s your problem?” I asked brusquely.
“I lent some money out.”
“And you want me to get it back?”
“No, not really. I don’t care about the money. Much.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“He wants more money.”
“Say no, Karen. Just say no.”
“I can’t. I sort of…made a deal.”
“Yes?” I prompted.
“He promised a very good return on my money. I just had to commit to a certain amount up front. And he has some collateral that I want back.”
“Karen,” I said as patiently as I could, “when you loan someone money, you don’t give them collateral, they give you collateral.”
“I know that. I’m out this money and I don’t want to lose any more.”
“Then maybe you should talk to your financial planner instead of me.”
“I can’t. It’s all…a bit irregular.”
“How irregular?” I demanded.
“Informal would be a better way to put it.”
“How informal?”
“I met him through the friend of a friend one night.”
“One night?”
“At a club.”
“A bar?” I asked sarcastically.
“No, of course not. A very nice private club,” Karen defended.
“Nice, huh?” As usual, it was going to be a struggle getting the truth out of Karen. I would, it appeared, earn the five thousand.
“Exclusive. Expensive. Only the right people go there.”
“How could the ‘right people’ do you wrong?” I asked rhetorically, then continued, “How informal was this investment? Did you sign anything?”
“No.”
“Did you agree to specific terms in front of witnesses?”
“No.”
“Karen,” I said, “you, of all people, would not pay me good money just to tell me that you made a bad and probably stupid loan. What do they have on you that makes you think you require my services?”
“Well,” she hedged, “nothing. Really, I don’t know.”